by Al Halsey
“I would leave that out of the story next time,” Kelsey chortled.
The Bishop continued again. “We shipped mother and infant in separate containers: sealed, blessed and lined with lead. By the time we arrived at the Vatican, the slimy creature born of human womb had vanished. The box containing it was empty but for a coating of oily mucus. The corpse of the mother was inspected and autopsied, but nothing could be determined. All we had to prove our story was the shredded remains of a young woman and an empty box. Then I was inducted into the Shadow Order, the most secret organization within the Church. I now investigate what most would deny even exist: my promotion the result of surviving the encounter. The creature that erupted from the woman is called a Shoggoth, evil beings from when before man walked the Earth. How she ended up impregnated with it, I can only speculate. So I know what it’s like not to understand, to be overwhelmed by the knowledge being revealed. Like you are now.”
Oakes stared at Kelsey.
“Why would you tell all these deep, dark secrets to me? If all this is so secret, you sure blabbed to me without thinking,” Kelsey snarled, and then paused while he contemplated the statement. “With all due respect, sir.”
“You already know some of it, Detective. Besides, events are now spinning out of control as we speak. No one will believe you, until it’s too late, so for you to head to the street corner to proclaim the end of times will go unheeded, even if you choose. These things that are coming defy the very laws of physics and sanity that govern our world. Things will come from across space and time. Things that will rule this dying globe with an iron hand of chaos. Death will be a welcome reprieve when Cthulhu rises from his ocean tomb. Humans will be herded like cattle, used in ways that decent people cannot even contemplate. Wars will rage for the amusement of dark gods, things so alien and beyond our ken it’s indescribable. It’s coming. The end of the world.” Oakes looked out of the dirty windows blankly, eyebrows furrowing. “Make things right with your soul while you can. With God. Soon, faith is all we will have left.”
“My soul is fine,” Kelsey said emotionlessly. “I don’t need faith. Don’t really have any anyway.”
“We are standing on the last vestige of sanity, of our reality. Humanity’s best days are behind us,” the bishop said sadly. His expression was blank. “We’ll see if you need faith, Detective.”
Kelsey cussed quietly under his breath and thought about the encounter with Bishop Oakes as he sat down at his desk. It took a minute of deep thought to realize he still wore his jacket. He took it off and hung on the back of his chair. Detective Frank Thompson came up behind him. Frank was back from his trip to Seattle to check on his father.
“Hey, you heard anything on that missing couple from Seattle that disappeared between here and Montana? And are you still working on that suicide from the weekend?” Thompson asked.
“No on the first, yes on the second.” Andrews put down some notes and looked up. “You get a positive identity on the suspect from that battery case?”
Frank laughed. “Better. My victim could only positively name the first guy who attacked him. He’s a frequent flyer, got a long record so that was easy. But he didn’t know the name of the second attacker, just knew him by his name from films he was in.”
“An actor?”
“Depends on how you define acting. An actor, and then some. His screen name is Big Johnny Cream. I ran him on a search on the internet, and found about two dozen movies he has been in.” Frank smiled. A mischievous grin curved from ear to ear. “Gay porn. I called the public defender, told him I would make that part of discovery before the jury. He panicked, said he had no idea about his client’s career and they would not dispute he was at the scene of the crime. I told him he owed me one for not dragging that into court.”
Kelsey laughed. “That’s funnier than hell: just when I think I’ve seen it all being a detective. Someone should write a book about this business.”
The phone at Thompson’s cubicle rang, and he answered. His face scrunched as a voice warbled in the receiver.
“We have to roll. Got a call. Looks like a suicide,” Frank said.
“Son of a bitch. Another one? I haven’t got the paperwork finished from this weekend,” Kelsey groused. “Sorry. A lot on my mind.”
“It’s ok. Patrol made the call. The victim was found a few minutes ago by a secretary and they cleared the scene. Put a .45 to his head,” Thompson said, matter-of-fact. “We need to check it out.”
“What’s the address?”
Frank pulled out a notepad. “4320 Bryden, in some strip mall. Suite number…”
“Sixteen,” Kelsey finished for him. “Doctor Phillip Dreyfus. He’s the shooter.”
Detective Thompson looked surprised. “Who told you?”
Kelsey’s muscles tensed. He stared. “Lucky guess.”
Dreyfus was on the floor behind his desk with a bloody splash of bright crimson and slick, wet brain matter splattered on the wall. Kelsey and Thompson looked over the scene as the hysterical secretary’s shrieks echoed through the outer office.
“Well, he’s dead,” Frank said decisively. “Nice shot.”
Kelsey gently poked the pistol that lay near the body with a pen. The gun was untouched by the puddle of blood as it soaked into the carpet. “Ruger 9mm. They look a lot like a .45. Patrol made a mistake. Still, more than enough to penetrate and splatter. Whatta mess.”
“What the hell is it with this rash of suicides all of a sudden?” Thompson grumbled. “I suppose we are in the middle of a big cluster now: this is gonna keep rolling until we rack up five or six more of these. Dammit, the paperwork will be endless.”
Kelsey stood. “I talked to this guy just yesterday: he’s Samuels’ shrink. I thought he was jumpy, but Jesus Christ on a crutch. As loony as his patient. So much for his eleven years of education.”
Thompson sighed. “You investigating the Feds case? Chief’s gonna love to hear that. Let me know when you see him coming so I can leave, not gonna get hit by flying objects once the old fart gets going on you. Nice job.”
“I’m not investigating, just following up. Chatting, not investigating.” Andrews studied the desk, and contemplated the dark circles scribbled there. “Big difference.”
“I don’t see much of a difference,” Thompson said. “Were paramedics called in on this one?”
“Patrol arrived first, determined he was dead and there was no point. Just us. Dispatch called the coroner while we were on our way.”
Andrews gently picked up an envelope on the corner of the desk. The writing was in shaky black ink.
“Detective,” Kelsey whispered as he read the print. The packet was unsealed. With practiced skill, he gingerly lifted out a folded sheet of paper. He looked at the words on the paper and thought about the potential consequences of his chat with the psychiatrist yesterday.
“What’s it say?” Frank said quietly. “Is it our note? Case closed?”
Kelsey read the script aloud. “Detective Andrews, it all comes together. Better dead than alive to witness what will happen.”
“That’s it?” Thompson said.
“That’s it,” Kelsey said emotionlessly. “Chief is really gonna be pissed.”
“You talk to anybody else? You wanna prepare me for any other suicides we might be investigating today before they happen?”
Andrews glared. “Just you. Good luck.”
Wednesday came, the middle of an insane week coupled with insane dreams.
The Chief’s voice sounded angrier than usual on the phone just moments before, and now Kelsey trudged down the empty carpeted hallways to Roger’s office. Voices carried through the door, muffled and angry. The Detective rapped his knuckles on the solid door and waited quietly. Eventually the knob turned and he entered. The chief retreated behind a huge, oak desk. Sitting in a chair to the left of the door was FBI agent Johnson, dressed in a black suit and smartly pressed white shirt.
“Good morning, gentlemen,�
� Kelsey said as he forced a smile. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Chief Rogers glared. “Agent Johnson has some concerns you are fishing about in forbidden waters, Detective, and he flew back here in person to express that.”
“I’m not really sure I understand, Chief,” Kelsey said dryly. “We have closed the case and shipped all relevant materials…”
“Cut the crap,” Ray interrupted. “Johnson knows all about Dreyfus, and you gabbing with that priest. This is a closed case from our end, and this needs to stop.”
“I’m not investigating. I’m just trying to understand this end-of-the-world stuff, Cthulhu. It’s the end of November and the body count is mounting. Yearly stats are going to be lousy if this keeps up. I want to be prepared to understand this phenomenon. I think we have a suicide cluster, and it may get worse. These people are really buying into this stuff.”
“What’s a Cthulhu?” Rogers asked.
“Some ancient, nasty god that predates everything,” Kelsey said. “His worshippers are a hidden cult…”
“Enough,” the agent interrupted. “These fairy tales are clouding the issue. We are investigating stolen relics, the illegal trafficking in antiquities, not Armageddon. I don’t know why local departments can’t just let us do our jobs.”
“That statue he took: that’s Cthulhu, Chief. That’s the deity that these cultists think is bringing about the end of the world.” Kelsey folded his arms and looked at the FBI Agent. “They’re covering it up.”
“That statue? It looked like calamari on the hoof to me. Ugly thing,” Ray grumped.
“This meeting is over. I’ve wasted a morning repeating myself that this is our investigation, and you people need to stay out of it. This was all made very clear a couple days ago. Do I need an injunction to keep you from meddling? I thought we were all on the same team.” Johnson glowered at them both, and then stood. “We rely on local departments to be the front line, not mucking about and muddying the waters.”
“No injunction needed. We get the message, don’t we, Detective?” Ray said decisively, and pointed at Kelsey. “We will comply with your request.”
“If I have to come back, heads will roll on this one. I’m way too busy for this nonsense,” the agent said. He pulled his jacket down to straighten the wrinkles. “I have a plane to catch, but I would like a moment alone with the detective, Chief. Your office will be fine.”
Ray ran his hand through his gray hair and glared. “I’ll be right back.” He moved through the door, and then closed it with a sharp pull that echoed in the room.
Agent Johnson stepped close to Kelsey. “You have interjected yourself into something that is way bigger than you can ever know. Butt out. Now. Or else.”
He stared into the agent’s eyes. They never blinked. “Just doing my job.”
“No. No, you’re not. You’re on a collision course with the Federal Government. This fishing expedition could be unhealthy if it doesn’t stop, and stop now.”
“Are you threatening me?” Kelsey thundered.
The agent’s expression became very calm. “If you were just a hobo, nosy reporter, dabbling cultist, some meddling college kid who stumbled into this obscure information, your disappearance would not cause much concern. But a missing detective, even from small town Idaho, would be a significant mystery. Maybe even grab some national headlines. One last time, butt out. Your life depends on it. Read into it what you will, Andrews.”
“You know about this? You believe it, don’t you? You’re working to keep this covered up.” The two circled and leaned face-to-face. “You’re willing to kill to keep this secret, aren’t you?”
“If people believed the end of the world was coming, who would work? Pay taxes? Imagine the anarchy. The world would be thrown into chaos,” Johnson hissed. “We need a functional government right up until the end. There has to be some semblance of social order, even as the world falls apart. Assuming there is an end, of course.”
Kelsey’s mind whirled at the implications. “Is this policy, or are you some rogue agent with his own agenda.”
“I already have a bullet with your name on it. If I was on my own, it would’ve been fired by now. I won’t have this conversation again,” Johnson spat and glared. He stabbed his finger into the detective’s chest. “Dreyfus shouldn’t have put that 9mm to his head.”
“An FBI agent is threatening my life?” The detective glared back. Then he collected his thoughts. “That call went out that the shot was from a .45. How do you know what he was really shot with? That report isn’t even done yet.”
“Butt out,” the FBI agent growled and walked out. “Last warning.”
Kelsey slept fitfully. He tossed and turned all night. Once again, cyclopean blocks of twisted stone filled his dreams, wet from mist, covered in kelp. In his slumber he could smell the acrid scent of rotten seaweed, dredged from the bottom of some dark sea. A voice quietly called his name, and Kelsey turned. In the darkness of a close column of stone, the voice emanated again. He strained to see and tried to make sense of the place. The unknown shape shifted in the darkness. Slowly a figure shuffled into the filtered light and he recognized the face of his brother.
Rob raised a darkened hand, wet from the moisture in the air. His face was blue. His head tilted to the right, and water drained from his half open mouth. His Navy Working Uniform was torn and scorched, and showed tattered flesh and flayed muscle beneath. Bloody seawater bubbled from bloated lips and his red eyes focused on his older brother. Kelsey woke. He shook like a leaf in an evil breeze. Sweat had soaked his pillow.
He did not fall asleep again. He sat in a chair in the living room and waited for the sound of the alarm clock. Kelsey dreaded Thursday’s arrival because of the week’s events. As he sipped a cup of coffee in his modest kitchen, he glanced through copies of the photos made from Rudy Samuels’ albums. For a long time, he stared at the Heart of the Monster, an ancient sacred place to the Nez Perce Indians. The mound was an hour and a half drive away, and the detective’s mind buzzed with possibilities.
He slurped the last of the hot liquid, and then set the cup in the sink. Kelsey scratched his cat that was stretched out on the couch before he holstered his pistol and slowly ambled to his car.
He sat quietly for a few minutes as the car warmed, then left the driveway and drove through early traffic to the Police Station. As he looked out into the cold overcast of this late November morning, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
“Hey Francine, it’s Kelsey,” he said into the phone. “I’m fine, yeah. Gonna be in late today: would you pass it on to the Chief? No, later. Yeah, everything is ok. Bye.”
He sat for a few more seconds, and then drove through traffic onto Main Street. It took several minutes to switch lanes and dodge road construction to end up on the highway heading east out of Lewiston.
Across the river was the huge lumber mill: hot steam and bitter odors belched from massive stacks into the cold air. The cloud hung over the mill eerily, held in place by a stagnant inversion. Kelsey drove in silence and thought of Rudy Samuels and the photographs on the refrigerator. What did he know? he thought.
It took several long minutes for the overcast valley to be left behind, and the four lanes of highway became two as the hills around him gained height. The road became thinner, tight asphalt curves that followed the river into dark valleys. Sporadic pines became thick. The detective kept his eyes on the slick, dark road: a light snow wafted from the hazy gray sky. Dim light was replaced by the shadows of the mountains, and at times he felt like he drowned in the cold of winter.
A small green sign indicated he entered the Nez Perce Reservation. The metal placard was faded, and a dozen bullet holes were punched through the steel. A turnoff to the right took him to Lapwai, a small Indian town in the middle of the reservation.
The winding road continued: a twisted ribbon of gray with faded center lines as he went deeper into the territory. He drove carefully though the treacherous can
yon. The small town of Orofino passed on his left, a dirty little burg, economically depressed from the collapse of the timber mills. The only industry left was one of the state prisons and an insane asylum where tortured souls were locked up and forgotten. Before his grandmother passed away, he remembered her story of Sunday drives through the tiny, dilapidated burg. It was not unusual to see children in cages made of chicken wire in front yards.
Squat houses, in need of paint and repairs were passed as the car sped by. Dirty children played in unkempt yards. The brats chased mangy dogs with sticks and stones for cruel amusement. Kelsey was relieved once through the town. Even in the car, it felt cold: an insidious chill pressed down on him he couldn’t describe. Even without the cages, the tiny hamlet of the crazed had not progressed much since the days his grandmother.
Farther down the road, the twists and turns led to the town of Kamiah, another tiny town nestled into a flat spot amongst the canyons. He slowed, eyes locked on the icy patches on the poorly maintained highway. Past several dilapidated gas stations and cluttered mobile homes he crossed over a concrete bridge. The wind whipped strongly from the north, and blew snow across the road. He edged the steering wheel to the right, and the car responded and turned into a tiny turnoff into a gravel lot.
The wind continued to shake the tall pines on either side of the road: cold November air pushed from the far north. Kelsey sat in the car and looked at a large mound in the middle of a small field. The hill was at least eighty feet in diameter and a good two stories tall, surrounded by a rough wood fence. Dry scrubby grass poked out of piles of dirty snow, and the detective’s eyes focused on a sign. He read the words, faded gold on green, and then looked back at the hill. Something about it felt unnatural. He ignored the anxiety and slowly opened the car door. An electronic chime sounded, and he jumped, startled.